


The Countdown

by withoutaplease



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 02:41:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5566210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withoutaplease/pseuds/withoutaplease
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reader finds more than she was looking for after a New Year’s Eve witch hunt with the Winchesters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Countdown

**Author's Note:**

> Pairing: Sam x Female Reader  
> Warnings: Smut obvs, extremely brief mention of blood, uh, handcuffs?  
> Author’s Note: This one’s a standalone, and I’m quite pleased with the way it turned out. I wish all of you a wonderful, smutty New Year, friends.

               You stand next to the bar, champagne flute balanced in the fingers of one hand, sweet young bartender wrapped around the fingers of the other.   It’s the grandest ballroom you’ve ever been in, like something out of a Disney movie; vaulted ceiling hung heavy with shimmering chandeliers, marble-tiled floor buffed to a mirror-like sheen, and everywhere, beautiful people in cocktail dresses and tuxedos, faces flush with alcohol and the unique optimism that comes with the promise of a new year.  If it wasn’t for the fact that you’re here working, it would be the perfect New Year’s Eve.

               He’s cute, the bartender, and eager enough to tell you everything he knows, which, it’s quickly becoming apparent, is nothing at all.  His eyes keep wandering down into your cleavage, on display for precisely that reason, though it wasn’t his attention you were thinking of when you picked out the red satin dress.  In fairness, your eyes keep wandering as well, across the sea of gorgeous revellers, drawn almost magnetically to the one tuxedoed figure that stands out against the rest.  He’s at least a head taller than anyone else in the ballroom, though that’s far from the only reason you can’t look away.  He’s scanning the crowd, and when he catches your gaze, he smiles luminous, and you’re done for.  You turn to the bartender, interrupting the anecdote you’d been tuning out with a smile and a wink.

               “I’m sorry to interrupt you, Sugar, but I have to go,” you drawl, tipping your glass toward him in a toast gesture. “You hold that thought, and I’ll come find you later.”  You flash him a big grin and see his cheeks blush crimson before you turn to walk away on legs unaccustomed to high heels.  His eyes remain fixed on your backside until you disappear into the sea of people, but you never see him again, and he’s already the furthest thing from your mind.  Every other person here might as well vanish, too, because in this moment, all you see is Sam.  When you reach him, his hand lands on the small of your back as if it’s always been there, and it’s evident in the way he’s smiling down at you, transfixed, that you’re the only person in the room right now for him.  He leans down to whisper in your ear, and you wonder briefly if he’s affected by the perfume you dotted behind it while you were getting dressed for the evening.

               “Did you find out anything useful?” he asks, and despite the quick shiver his whisper sends down your spine, you remember that you’re here to work.

               “Nah,” you answer, as casually as you can manage as you take a half-step back in a futile attempt to put some distance between yourself and Sam.  It doesn’t help that his hand doesn’t budge from your back, fingers splayed, pinky extended downward just enough to be in the territory of your ass. “He hasn’t seen a thing.  If the witches are working their spells here, it’s nowhere near the kitchen.”

               “Me neither,” he says, free arm sweeping out to lift a champagne flute from the tray of a passing waiter.  “There’s nothing in the front offices.  Maybe Dean’s having better luck in the guestrooms upstairs.” 

               You smirk, thinking of the curvy blonde chambermaid you saw Dean follow up the spiral staircase half an hour ago.  “I bet he is.”  Sam chuckles softly before taking a long drink, the dainty glass dwarfed by his fingers.  You follow suit, finishing the champagne that the sweet, forgotten bartender poured for you, and you both fall into silence as you look out across the dance floor.   His hand remains stubbornly at the small of your back, and without conversation to distract you, it’s all you can think about.  You turn to Sam after an endless minute, lips poised to ask the questions that have been screaming to be asked ever since he kissed you two weeks ago.  He chooses the same moment to act, suddenly stepping in front of you and lifting the glass out of your hand.

               “Dance with me?” he asks, putting both your glasses down on a nearby ledge and grinning at you, expectant and irresistible, as the words die on the back of your tongue for the hundredth time at least.  _What did that mean? Why would you do that to me if you weren’t planning on doing it again?_

“Of course,” you answer, smile wide as you take his hand and let him lead you out into the middle of the ballroom floor.  The other couples make way for you almost like magic, and once again, as you twirl and sway surprisingly gracefully with Sam, chandeliers twinkling and music swelling, it feels as though there isn’t another soul besides his in the entire grand hotel.

* * * * *

               It happened in a bar; one of the countless, nameless, skeevy dive bars that hunters seem to frequent, and none more frequently than the Winchesters. And you, since you started running with them. You were already feeling sentimental and a little sorry for yourself, it being a week before Christmas and you spending it on the road with a couple of guys who were barely more than strangers.  Add to that you’d recently become aware of certain feelings you’d developed for Sam – marriage, procreation, becoming geriatric in matching rocking chairs kinds of feelings – and you were hunched over the whiskey sour you’d been milking in full-blown misery while the brothers winked and dimpled their way through the evening’s pool hustle.  You looked up to see a cute redhead grinning up at Sam like he was the only source of light in the entire bar.  Not that you could blame her, in fairness, but you groaned and rolled your eyes, took another sip of your diluted cocktail, and pretended to be deeply engrossed in a round of Bejeweled Blitz.

               The next time you looked, Sam and the redhead were huddled together on stools at one of the small high tables next to the pool tables, laughing, and she had one of his knees caught between both of hers.  It was more than you needed to see, and you knocked back the dregs of your drink (it was whiskey-flavoured ice at that point, anyway) and took a quick look around for Dean.  He was nowhere to be found – not a big surprise given the hour of night – and you decided to just walk the few blocks back to your motel room.  You hadn’t seen hide nor hair of monsters in this neighbourhood, and as for the garden-variety muggers, well, you were packing.  You shrugged on your wool coat and made it about three steps toward the exit before you were stopped by a large, strong hand on your shoulder.

               You turned around to face Sam, and he made an attempt at a casual smile.  “Don’t tell me you’re leaving already,” he said, his voice a touch breathy, like maybe he just spent the last few seconds covering the room in five strides. 

               “I was planning on it, yeah,” you answered.  “Looked like you had yourself sorted over there.” You nodded toward the table where he’d been cozying with the redhead; she was nowhere in sight, and Sam was looming in front of you. 

               “I was just seeing if she had any information,” he said, though despite what may have been very good intentions, he wasn’t very convincing about it. 

               “Well, don’t let her get away!” you replied, with as much cheer as you could muster, and turned to walk out again.  Sam didn’t let go of your shoulder.

               “(Y/N),” he said.  “What’s wrong?”

               “Nothing,” you said, almost automatically, shaking your head at him.  “Go find your girl.”

               “That’s what I’m trying to do,” he said, so quietly that you weren’t sure you heard him over the din of the jukebox and the handful of other patrons.  You stopped and stared at his face, studying his expression for meaning.

               “What did you say?” you asked.

               He looked away for a second, laughing a small, strangled laugh, and you could see him searching, trying to decide what to say.  He looked back at you, muttered, “Fuck it,” and then, before you had time to register it was happening, he pulled you close with both hands and kissed you so hard your knees went weak.  It took you a second, then your hands were winding into his hair, and your tongue was pushing its way into his mouth, and every eye in the place was pretending not to stare.

               Then, his phone rang.  The call was from Dean.  Some kind of a break.  Had to be now.

               You stood, blinking stupidly and trying to catch your breath, as Sam took the call and the other patrons turned their gazes back to their tables.  You were mostly recovered by the time he hung up, besides the heaviness that settled in your chest at that moment and hadn’t left you since. He grinned apologetically, and then you were off, Sam’s kiss pushed aside for the hunting and the saving. 

               There had been a lot of hunting and saving in the last two weeks.

* * * * *

               You open your eyes to the sound of the ballroom’s music faraway and dulled, along with the more immediate sound of Sam shouting your name, repeatedly.  At first, there’s little difference between what you see with eyes open or closed – the only source of light is a tiny sliver streaming through the crack in a door.  With effort, and not a little pounding behind your eyes, you manage to convince your vision to focus.  You’re in a closet, dusty old coats making the air close and acrid.  Your head is killing you, dried blood stiff and itchy at your left temple. You go to wipe it away, and that’s when you realize you can’t, handcuffs keeping your arms twisted behind your back.   “(Y/N),” Sam shouts again, from mere inches away.

               “You’re not here to rescue me, are you?” you respond, groaning and taking an internal inventory. 

               “Are you okay?” Sam says, sounding more than a little relieved.

               Aside from your head and the bite of the cuffs around your wrists, you’re fine.  “Yeah,” you reply.  “What the hell happened?”

               In the sliver of light, you see Sam’s face scan around the closet you’ve been locked in as he answers you. “After we danced,” he says quickly, eyes never slowing in his search for a weak point, “you spotted that woman in the blue dress carrying all those grocery bags down the stairs to the basement, and you followed her down.”  He stops scanning, and frowns.  “When you were gone too long, I came down and found you here.”

               “You _were_ rescuing me!” you say.

               “It didn’t work,” he says matter-of-factly.   Then, “Any chance you have a secret trick for opening handcuffs?”

               In the sliver of light, you see the expression on his face, somehow both innocuous and deadly serious.  “Not unless you happened to grab the key on your way in,” you answer.

               His head drops a little.  In the same even tone, but with a decidedly more pained look on his face, he says, “I’m gonna need you to turn around,” already starting to twist around himself.

               “Why?” you ask, suddenly alarmed by his expression.

               “I have to break your thumb,” he answers, “so you can get out of your handcuffs.”

               You freeze, and look at him like he’s suggesting you cut off an arm.  “Why does it have to be _my_ thumb?” you protest.

               He’s genuinely sympathetic.  “Your hands are a lot smaller than mine. You’re more likely to be able to get out.”

               “No,” you say quickly.

               “(Y/N),” he starts gently.

               “No,” you say again, decisively.  “Dean’s gonna find us.”

               He sighs. “We’ve got _maybe_ until the countdown before those witches come back for us.  Do you have any idea what time it is?”  You have no clue how long it’s been since you and Sam danced, how long you were out.  You shake your head.  “Neither do I,” he says.  There’s a pause, which you fill looking up at him pleadingly.  “You want to wait for Dean,” he says eventually, more to himself than to you.  “All right,” he says, wincing as he tries rolling a stiff shoulder, then leans against the closet door, sighing.  “We’ll wait.”

               You and Sam stand in silence for a few minutes, listening to the muffled music coming from above you and occasionally fidgeting against your handcuffs.  It isn’t remotely the time, and you berate yourself for it, but you can’t help noticing the smell of his special-occasion cologne as it’s mixing with increasingly-anxious sweat.  Unconsciously, you sigh, long and heavy.

               “What?” Sam says, and you can almost detect the pout in his voice.

               “Nothing,” you mutter, trying to will your mind back into concentration.

               “That was not nothing,” he says, talking part of a step and closing the scant space in between you, one leg resting between your knees.  “Say what’s on your mind.”

               Your eyes have adjusted to the dark, and you stare up at him.  He holds your gaze unflinchingly.  “Sam,” you say, relenting after a moment’s hesitation, “you know what’s on my mind. You kissed me!”

               He looks actually surprised for a second.  “Do you really want to talk about _this?_ Right now?” he asks, just this side of sarcasm.  “Someone could be coming to kill us this second.”

               “Well I’ll be waiting to fend them off with my broken thumb,” you spit back.  “You didn’t answer me.”

               “You didn’t ask me anything,” he replies, the beginnings of a smirk forming on his lips. 

               “Why did you do it?” you shout irritatedly.  He breaks out in a grin, and your scowl starts to lose its footing.

               “Kiss you?” he asks, and you shoot him a glare. “I kissed you because I liked you,” he says. 

               You’re silent for a moment. “Why haven’t you kissed me again?” you ask, glancing away, feeling your cheeks redden.

               “I didn’t think you wanted me to,” he says, and you can read all over his face that he already knows he was wrong.

               “What on earth gave you that idea?” you say.

               He shrugs slightly.  “You never said anything after.  I thought you were avoiding me.”

               The headache at your temple throbs.  “I wasn’t avoiding you,” you say, exasperated.  The words tumble out before you can stop them.  “I’m in love with you.”

               That arrests him. “You’re in love with me?” he repeats, slightly dumbfounded.

               You look him in the eye again, past the point of regret.  “Yes, you idiot,” you say, “I’m in lo-“

               You’re cut off by a loud flourish of music from upstairs.  Then the crowd yells, “Ten!” and you and Sam share a wide-eyed look. 

               The crowd yells, “Nine!” and you and Sam stare at each other, helpless, and you shake your head, give a little shrug.

               The crowd yells, “Eight!” and his face hardens into a look of resignation.

               “Fuck it,” he says, and he closes what little space remains between you.  He kisses you, wet and breathless, and when you fall back against the wall, he follows, pinning you with a thigh pressed between your legs.

               By “Seven!” Sam’s tongue is pushing its way past your teeth.

               By “Six!” you’re grinding your hips down onto his thigh, looking for friction between the satin of your dress and the wool of his pants.

               By “Five!” you’ve found it, and when you moan into his mouth, he just kisses you harder.

               By “Four!” you can feel him, hard as a rock, pressing into your hip as you grind down again onto his leg.

               After that, you don’t hear “three,” or “one,” or the cheers of all the partygoers.  You don’t hear the band strike up _Auld Lang Syne_.  You barely hear your own whimpers as they escape between Sam’s endless, insistent kisses.

               You do hear the closet door fly open.  In the span of a second, you feel Sam’s entire body tense, and his lips vanish from yours as he turns to face whoever opened the door.  By the time you turn to look yourself, he’s relaxed again.  Even as you feel the blush creeping up in your cheeks, you grin, relieved.

               “This was your escape plan?” Dean says, and Sam rolls his eyes. 

               You all pretend not to notice Sam’s erection through the thin wool of his tuxedo pants, at least until Dean’s got his handcuffs off and he’s able to readjust. Then he flashes you one long, articulate, pupil-blown look, one that tells you he’s barely keeping himself composed right now, that insists, _this isn’t over, not by a long shot._

* * * * *

               The ride from the ritzy downtown ballroom to your shitty motor motel on the outskirts is mostly a silent one.  Even the music’s at an almost reasonable volume, Dean keeping his eyes unflinchingly on the road, Sam staring down at the asphalt flying by from the passenger seat, and you in the back, eyes closed, head leaned back on the seat, trying not to imagine all the different scenarios where this could go horribly wrong.  You open your eyes when you hear the crunch of gravel under the Impala’s tires as Dean pulls into the motel parking lot. 

               You and Sam reach for your doors, both freezing when Dean says, “Hold it.” He eyeballs you before he fixes his stare on Sam. “I’d really like to get some sleep right now,” he continues, “and you two need to figure out whatever the hell that was I walked in on, before it gets somebody killed.  I’m going inside.  You stay here.”  Dean turns off the engine and gets out of the car.  He adds, “And watch the leather interior,” before he closes the driver’s side door. 

               You turn to look at Sam, and he’s halfway out the passenger door.  In the span of about three seconds, he’s already folding himself into the back seat with you and closing the door behind him, one finger wrestling with the knot on his bowtie.  He starts on the buttons at his collar once the bowtie’s gone, not saying a word as you watch him undress.

               “Sam?” you say, as he unbuttons the cuffs at his wrists. He doesn’t answer.

               “Sam,” you say, louder, and he takes a moment to shrug his coat off his shoulders before he turns to look at you, hands at work on his vest.

               “What?” he says, sliding over in the seat so that he’s practically on top of you, leaving his vest hanging open as he drops what he’s doing to run his hands up your arms, giving you goosebumps.  He stops to look you in the eye, inches away from your face, and his mouth is starting to curl in a grin. “What could possibly be more important than this?”

               He raises his eyebrows and smiles, waiting.  You forget everything you were planning to say.  “Fuck it,” you say instead, and grin back at him, until your lips are swept up in a kiss that assures you’ve made the right decision.  Sam spreads himself over top of you, pressing you down into the backseat, and now it’s not just lips and tongues but hands and hips and privacy.  He reaches one set of fingertips down into the front of your dress, passing satin and lace to cup down into your bra.  He catches your nipple between two fingers, and rolls it until you yelp into his mouth.  Then he grins and just pulls your breast out of your bra, leaving you exposed, and then immediately reaches for the other one. 

               When he’s got you bare-chested, he breaks off the kiss and moves over a little to give himself room to skate his hands up under the bottom of your dress.  He finds your panties – a lace thong that you would never normally wear, except it was New Year’s, and the _dress_ – and slides them off your hips as you arch them up off the seat to help.  Then he’s holding one of your legs in his hands, and running his lips along it, and you think to yourself that you’re glad you took the time to shave, and then you think to yourself it’s one thing to imagine in the shower what Sam must feel like against your skin, and quite another thing to actually feel him.  You sigh, and he rests your leg down, moving back over top of you and running one hand under the hem of your dress. 

               “Did I tell you I think you look incredible in this dress?” he says, in a hushed, hoarse voice as he runs two fingers through the wetness that has collected in your slit. 

               “No,” you breathe, followed quickly by a gasp as his fingers find your opening and push themselves inside.

               “Hmm,” he says, then he curls his fingers into your g-spot hard enough to make your eyes unfocus, to make you yell.  He smiles.  “Well, you do.  Just wanted to tell you that.” 

               Your _thank you_ is pre-empted by another scream, and another, and then a virtually non-stop stream of them as Sam curls his fingers repeatedly and relentlessly inside you, and you writhe on the seat beneath him.  Just as you’re starting to think very seriously about Dean’s warning over the leather interior, he pulls his fingers out, and then he’s just running them, slowly and lightly, back and forth along your slit, your hips twitching every time a fingertip grazes your clit.

               “Still want to talk?” he whispers, fingers picking up speed.  You shake your head, squirming and panting as his every movement pushes the pressure in your core closer to breaking.  “What do you want?” he asks, while you’re rolling your hips and losing your mind.

               “Fuck me,” you say, and it’s a whine more than anything, and you whine worse when he takes his fingers from beneath your dress entirely, and sits upright against the seatback, and finishes the job of taking off his vest and dress shirt.

               “I do love that dress,” he says, eyes drinking you in great gulps as he’s pulling his arms from the shirt’s sleeves.  You look down at yourself, and you’d blush if every drop of blood wasn’t already thrumming just beneath the surface of your skin.  Red satin is bunched up around your waist, along with a little black lace wadded up beneath your breasts, but for all intents and purposes, you’re naked.  You look back up to see him unbuckling his belt, then unzipping his dress pants, and finally pushing them, along with his boxer-briefs, down over his hips and thighs until he is, for all intents and purposes, naked too.

               When his cock springs free, it’s so alert and stiff and _ready_ that you’re fully prepared to climb aboard right then and there, and then you see a flash of foil in his teeth and smile to yourself.  _Leave it to Sam to be a gentleman, even for backseat sex in a motel parking lot._ As soon as the condom is unrolled on his dick, he’s reaching for you, and his lips are smiling but his eyes are dark and ravenous.  You crawl over to straddle his hips, and as you raise your own up to catch the head of his cock with the mouth of your pussy, your head hits the roof, forcing you to bow your head.  When you sink down onto him, as slowly as you can manage with thighs that seem intent on trembling, your neck straightens out again.  You pause when you're fully seated to kiss him, and he responds with such ferocity that it takes your breath away as his hands grip hard in your hair and his tongue swirls around your mouth.  You arch your back, rock your hips. 

               You don’t know if it’s the champagne or the near death experience or the two full weeks of foreplay, but Sam feels fantastic inside you as you grind against his pubic bone and he pulls your hair so hard your head tilts back.  Your breath turns into panting as he punctuates the marks he’s sucking into your neck with the occasional grunt and strained lifting of his hips.  Then there comes a moment, while you’re keeping a slow and steady pace, that he stops you, with his hands suddenly gripping your hips hard enough to leave fingerprints, and his teeth bearing down on the fragile skin of your neck, nearly hard enough to hurt. 

               He comes up from your neck to look at you for just a second, and then he’s raising his hips, and pulling you down hard onto his cock with his hands, and then you’re hollering and bumping your head on the roof and slapping your back against the leather while he fucks you senseless from beneath you.  You come hard, and almost by surprise, one hand braced against the front seat of the Impala, the other hand splayed on the roof.  His eyes squeeze shut and he moans as you clench and shudder around him, but he doesn’t stop.  He keeps pulling you onto him when your thighs become too weak to do it yourself, and then when he comes, it’s with a roar, hips stuttering beneath you, toothy grin spreading, and staying, on his face.

               You say nothing as you put yourself back together in the backseat, pulling the cups of your bra back up over your breasts and shimmying the dress back down over your hips, but you can see Sam’s smile glinting out of the corner of your eye, and you can’t help smiling, too.  You look over at him when you’re decent, and he winks.  He’s thrown his dress shirt on unbuttoned, and called it good.

               “You ready for a new year?” he says conversationally as you shut the car’s back door behind you and make your dishevelled way across the parking lot.  He weaves an arm possessively around your waist as you walk. 

               “Yeah,” you answer, as he feels around in his pocket for the room key. “First thing I want to change is the sleeping arrangements.” He laughs and squeezes your side as he opens the motel door to tell Dean he’ll be needing a room to himself from now on.


End file.
